


Chronicles of War: Between the Lines

by ChibiAuthorJessie (manatapped)



Series: Chronicles of War [4]
Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: F/M, Gen, Hell It's Me So Lots of Angst, In-Between The Action, Will Add More As I Post More, character exposition, probably lots of angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-07-19 17:48:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19978057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manatapped/pseuds/ChibiAuthorJessie
Summary: Moments in time - breaths between words, thoughts between actions - that fill the spaces in people's lives.A collection of short one-shots that take place in my version of the WoW universe, things that I think are important to show but don't fit within the main narrative. Compliant with the canon I've created, but not always in chronological order.**WILL DEFINITELY CONTAIN SPOILERS FOR THE CURRENT CHAPTERS OF THE MAIN FIC!**





	1. Obligatory Boring Info and Disclaimers

**Legal Stuff: Canon characters, names, places, etc, are property of Blizzard Entertainment. I only own my OCs and the bullshit I put them through, no matter how much I wish I could write them into canon (seriously, Blizz, hmu).**

You know the deal on this, y'all. Same rules from the main fic apply to this, but also:

I will post content warnings at the start of each chapter, if they apply.

These won't be in chronological order, but I'll label where in the story they fit so it makes some kind of sense.

It should go without saying, but if you're not caught up to the most recent chapter of the fic...here there be spoilers. You've been warned.

\---

I wanted a chance to tell the smaller stories, the ones that I feel are important but that would bog down the main fic if I tried to include them. Some will be pretty short, others a bit longer, just depends on who and what they have to deal with. As for who they'll involve, it really could be anyone, my OCs or canon characters, as long as they've made an appearance in the main fic so far.

ALSO!

If there's something you want to see, like a specific moment I might have talked about but not shown, I'd love to hear suggestions! I'm actually really productive when I can sit down and pound out a thousand words that don't really have to fit into the main fic! I can't promise I'll write anything specific (writers are fickle beasts, you know), but I'd still love to hear from you just the same!

Okay, on with the show!

And, as always,

_**FOR AZEROTH!** _


	2. Lament

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place somewhere after Chapter 4 of 'Remorseless Winter'.

It’s barely dawn in Tirisfal, only a slight lightening of the sky breaking through the perpetual gloom, but the sound of hammers and the creaking of pulley ropes fills the stale air, even this early. It’s been raining for days, sometimes still cold enough in the mornings that it turns to slush, and a thick layer of mud covers the ground around the construction site, sticking to anything and everything that’s foolish enough to tromp through it. Two dozen workers, covered in grime and sweat, climb the sides of the structure - still mostly shorn timber bones at this point, though the stone foundation has been laid already - and another group, off to the side across the crumbling stones of the main thoroughfare, assemble the outer hull of a new zeppelin.

Though she may detest goblins - Belore damn their constant chatter and greasy little grins - Sylvanas has to admit, they are incredibly efficient workers. She stands at the base of the rising tower, eyes narrowed against the sleet falling from the sky, and watches them work. The sound of scraping metal and spurting machinery meet her ears, still far away but advancing in her direction, but she keeps her eyes on the workers she paid with entirely too much of her citizens’ gold.

“Comin’ along nicely, eh, your ladyship?”

Sylvanas barely glances over at the mechanical contraption sidling up next to her, inwardly suppressing a sigh, and nods once.

“I want that zeppelin in the air by the end of the week,” she says as she turns, burning red eyes scanning the skies over the ruins of Capital City. The goblin beside her makes a small noise, not quite shock and not quite disapproval, and one of the Dark Lady’s long ears twitches in indignation. “Will that be a problem, Chief Engineer?”

“No, no, of course not, your ladyship,” Gazlowe says, shaking his head and waving his hands, the long, metal limbs of his contraption mirroring his actions. He looks over at the zeppelin-in-progress and side-eyes her as he speaks again. “Course, that kinda expedited work ain’t gonna come cheap.”

Sylvanas turns to face him fully, saying nothing but glaring down at him, easily towering over his small form.

“Uh, of course, such a…uh, prestigious - and might I add beautiful - client such as yourself has uh…access to special discounts and, erm…”

Something pricks at the bare skin on Sylvanas’s arms, and she acknowledges the goblin with only a wave of her hand as she turns her back and walks away from him. Finding shelter from the sleet under the shade of a sickly-looking pine tree, she steps around the trunk and out of sight of the others, reaching out one hand in front of her. The air shimmers and parts, and a hand grasps hers.

“What is it?” She asks, free hand coming up to rest on Beleron’s cheek. His eyes are dark under a knit brow, and he seems to measure his words. “What troubles you so, dalah’surfal?”

“Tyri’el was just here,” he replies, smoothing a lock of pale hair out of her face, but he doesn’t meet her eyes. Sylvanas’s concerned look bleeds away, her dark lips pursing into a thin line.

“Does the mage city no longer suit his whims?”

“He…came in passing, from Shattrath.” Beleron seems to struggle for words. “He…”

“Look at me,” Sylvanas says, concern returning as she cups his chin and makes him meet her eyes. This is unlike him. “Is he unwell?”

“Yes,” the other elf admits, closing his eyes for a moment as if in pain. “He is…”

Again, his words are stolen to whatever is troubling him so. Sylvanas’s frown only deepens.

“What has you so shaken?” She asks, stroking his cheek with her thumb. He’s so warm against her, so alive under her dull, cold touch.

“He came to tell me that Dalaran was besieged by the Scourge and that…” Beleron takes in a deep breath through his nose. His voice is soft, barely a whisper, and there’s pain lacing each word. “Arthas killed Violet.”

Sylvanas blinks once, then twice, and takes a step back. Her back hits the trunk of the tree, armor clanking against the bark, and her hands curl into fists.

“His own _daughter_?” She growls, teeth bared, and raises her eyes to see the haunted look on her lover’s face. “Did he…?”

Beleron nods, gaze dropping to the ground as his shoulders fall.

“A val’kyr took her body before he retreated.”

“He…” Sylvanas says, breath stolen from her chest as images flash in her mind’s eye, still fresh and raw. She feels the phantom ache of Frostmourne, where the blade had carved through her, body and soul alike, sees the cruel grin and hears the cold laughter. The dark landscape around her blurs and she feels herself falling, feels the cold of the earth beneath her and the warmth of the arms that catch her and ease her down gently. Beleron is there, holding her close, and though she feels the keen of the banshee within rising in her chest, she swallows it and buries her wail under the cold fire that drives her in undeath. Hating how feeble she sounds - to think, the Banshee Queen weeping over the death of _that child_ \- she speaks again. “He will break her.”

“I know,” Beleron replies, settling down onto the wet ground and pulling her into his lap, murmuring under his breath to shroud them both in an invisibility charm.

“I should have…” Sylvanas begins, all of the fight and fury gone from her, replaced only with what she might have once known as remorse. _Grief._ “I could have kept her from this fate.”

“Tyri’el said she attacked Arthas blindly, tried to…” He trails off, shaking his head. “There was no way you might have prevented this.”

“There is always a way,” she snaps, voice peaking with the shrill edge of a banshee’s wail. Beleron flinches, and her rage softens around the edges, though it still flows through her as if her heart could still push it through her veins. She once again lifts her hand to caress his cheek, the pad of her thumb smearing away the trail of moisture there, and presses a soft, chaste kiss against his lips.

Her moods are fluid in her undeath, ebbing and flowing like the tide, from rage to sorrow to regret, and back again. Everything swirls within her like the morning mist of the forest, turbulent and calm at once, and she rests her head against Beleron’s chest to soothe herself with the steady beat of his heart. He shakes with quiet, suppressed little sobs and holds her tighter against him.

“Tyri’el should never have been made to know this pain,” Sylvanas says quietly, and feels Beleron’s breath hitch at that. She lifts her head from his chest and meets his gaze. “His heart is too soft to be made cold by watching the one he loves turned into…”

Trailing off, she looks down at herself, at the pallor of her skin. It had once been warm and rosy and _alive._

Shaking her head, she meets his eyes again.

“He is too much like you.”

“Too much for his own good,” Beleron says with a short nod. Sylvanas puts her hand on his chest, spreading armored fingers and willing the pain she knows is there to abate. Not for the first time, she wonders if it would have been easier on him if she had never been raised, if she had fallen defending Silvermoon and been allowed her rightful pyre instead of being turned into a puppet of the fallen prince. If he had could have mourned both her death and the deaths of his wife and children in peace, without the specter wearing her face coming back to haunt him. What peace he might yet have without her.

No living thing should be shackled to something dead, by choice or by force. The man before her, so very much alive and with so much life left in him, should never have tied himself to something like her, to a husk of her former self who cannot cry even when her dead heart aches. He has life still ahead of him, could still take another wife and bear more children. Could still be happy.

Beleron must see something in her eyes, because he puts his thumb under her chin and lifts it until she meets his gaze. She is still unused to seeing gold instead of green, as unused as she was when the blue as bright as the Quel’Thalas skies was turned sickly and green by the fel. They are sill his eyes, though, still the same ones she had first glimpsed centuries ago and had fallen too deeply into.

What does he see, looking back into hers? The Windrunner line has always been graced with deep, almost violet blues, a rarity amongst the quel’dorei, and she’d been told by many that had only added to her beauty. Now they are deep and unnaturally crimson, glowing from within as if the hatred and rage of a banshee creates light in itself, stark against the dead gray of her skin.

There are no mirrors in her quarters, no way for her to be reminded of what she is and what she is not.

“You are miles away,” Beleron says quietly, lips meeting hers for just a moment. “Come back to me.”

Sylvanas draws in a breath - a reflex that never fell out of habit, despite no longer needing air - and lets it back out through slack lips. She lifts her gaze over his shoulder, across the rolling hills to the east.

“He will have taken her to Acherus.”

Beleron only nods, using gentle magic to dry the cold sheen of sleet clinging to her cloak, though they both know she cannot feel the chill. He knows by now not to press her when she does not wish to speak on something.

“Her will is strong,” she says, thinking of the defiant little human, obedient but unbroken even after so many months under her heel, of how much she had borne a resemblance to her father. The moment Varimathras had scented the fallen prince in her blood, she had known that Violet would be a great asset, and yet, she had hated the girl every time she looked into the eyes that she’d inherited from the monster who had taken so much from her.

How dare his bloodline continue, even into a blameless bastard child, when she is forever bereft of that chance.

How dare he continue to take from her, when she has done nothing to deserve his cruelty.

How dare he cut short the life of one so young, one who he himself had given life to.

“She will break from his control, as I did.”

Sylvanas presses a hand to her chest, fingers splayed over the wound hidden under her armor, over dead flesh and the heart that no longer beats.

“She will help me kill him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *bangs fist on table* SYLVANAS HAS SELF-WORTH ISSUES OKAY?! 
> 
> Also, yeah, Sylvanas knew. Bel knew. They weren't just being assholes to Violet for no reason (okay, not about _this_ ).


End file.
